Exeunt Stage Right
by RococonoKokoro
Summary: He didn't know what it was about Ku-Hummel that got under his skin, but he knew that everything had spiraled out of control because of it. If only he had been able to control himself, if only he had treated Kurt like a person...  Eventual Karommel.


Warning: the following contains not-quite attempted suicide.

Currently a one-shot that may be expanded upon.

Paring: eventual Karommel/Kurtofsky.

* * *

Sick. He was sick.

He knew that, as he sat hunched in his chair, staring at a small plastic couple that weren't his and shouldn't be in his possession.

_What've I done?_ He thought, fighting back the burn of tears in his eyes and throat, a feeling that was becoming more and more familiar these days. His source of light, that wonderful angel-demon boy, was gone. Gone for good.

And it was his own fault.

He didn't know what it was about Ku-Hummel that got under his skin, but he knew that everything had spiraled out of control because of it. If only he had been able to control himself, if only he had treated Kurt (_you said it you said his name you can't go back now_) like a person, if only he hadn't _threatened_ him, if only, if only...

The guilt, terror and pain gnawed at his already-roiling stomach, making sweat stand out on his forehead as he rocked, trying to keep the agony from exploding, trying to keep himself in one piece, trying to keep his sanity.

_Sane? Who would ever call me sane?_ He thought derisively, remembering every interaction with Kurt he'd had. Slushies to the face, pushing him into lockers, dumpster tosses, and then **that kiss.** That wonderful, awful kiss. It had solidified everything in his mind while simultaneously sending everything in him into a tailspin as his foundations crumbled. He remembered everything about that kiss vividly, each detail seared into his brain as with a branding iron. God, the softness of Kurt's skin, the clean, sweet and spicy smell wafting from his perfectly coiffed hair, his feel of his soft, balm-covered lips that fit his own so perfectly, the delicate whisper of expensive fabric against the rough felt of his letterjacket, the incredible feeling of _rightness_ and comfort. But also, the blank shock on Kurt's face as he pushed him away. The shimmer of tears in his own eyes, and in the eyes of the boy that he l-l- (_just say it_) he _loved. _Damn it, he loved him. Dave felt a quick burst of joy at his long-overdue admission, then the guilt returned. And he drove him away! He had threatened his life, in a moment of desperation and terror. _Who does that? How could I say that?_ "I'm going to kill you." What the hell was wrong with him? He'd felt his control slipping, and that's what had come out. He couldn't believe that he'd said something like that, and worse, Kurt had believed him. Seeing the terror in Kurt's face hadn't made anything better: in fact, he'd had a nightmare that same night of standing helplessly over Kurt's cold, lifeless body, watching as red had drained from the already-pale face, leaving a marble complexion and beautiful eyes staring lifelessly up at him. He'd woken up sobbing, soaking his pillow with hot salt, almost screaming at the pain in his chest. That particular nightmare was recurring more and more often now...

But he'd gone and made everything even worse after that, like the idiot that he clearly was. Kurt had been so happy, and seeing his smile drop at Dave's approach had broken something inside him. Hearing Kurt whisper, "I don't want you near me" through white lips had exacerbated the wound, twisting his pain until he, like a puppet on a string, had acted through that knot and jabbed his finger into Kurt's chest, dragging it down obscenely, smirking like a madman. He'd taken the other boy's wedding toppers, ironically the all-American brunette bride and dark-haired groom, male and female, nuclear, right, something he wouldn't ever be. He'd taken them, and had caused even more heartbreak in Kurt Hummel's expressive eyes. And, of course, when he'd seen Kurt and Finn Hudson dancing in the choir room, that green-eyed monster that'd reared its head when _what was his name? Blair?_ had confronted him about Kurt had come roaring to life. He'd made a hand gesture, taunting the two, and the next thing he'd known, he was pinned against the wall by a very strong, very angry man who he figured out was Kurt's dad. Then, in the principal's office, he'd been so terrified that Kurt was going to out him, that he'd let slip his secret longing: "maybe he likes me". He'd seen the eye-rolling, and wanted to sink into the hard plastic couch out of shame and pain and anger. He'd been expelled, then, and tried to express to Kurt how sorry he was, how thankful that his secret was still secret, how he'd never meant to go this far, how he didn't want Kurt to see him as a monster. But all he could do was look at the boy sitting on the opposite couch and shake his head as he passed him.

And when Dave came back, he was gone. His locker empty, his chair taken by some girl with glasses and a heavy glower. That beautiful, terrible, wonderful boy was gone.

And it was his fault.

Snapping back to the present, Dave fought valiantly against the onslaught of agony that was rushing in a tidal wave towards him, threatening to consume him and sweep him away. The terrible emptiness inside taunted him with snarling, dripping mouths and unearthly shrieks. He covered his ears and curled in a ball on his closet floor, begging it silently to stop, screaming in his head that he was sorry, that he'd never meant it, that he would do anything to get the light back. He felt himself drowning in the darkness, the deep water enveloping him as he struggled desperately to _breathe_, to _live,_ to stop hurting so much. Everything inside him screamed for release, screamed that it was his fault, his own damn fault, that there was no one else to blame but David Karofsky, bully extraordinaire, who tormented the boy he was secretly in love with until he had to leave to escape.

_Escape..._ Slowly, shakily, Dave pulled his oversized pocket knife from his back pocket. His dad had bought it for him before he figured out that Dave couldn't bring himself to actually _kill_ the animal, much less skin it. He turned it over musingly in one of his big hands, staring at the shining red and the silver gleam of the blade. _It would be so easy_, he thought, pressing it experimentally against his wrist. The soft skin gave easily under the sharp metal, blood beading around the blade. He pressed a bit harder, and was rewarded by a sharp stab of pain. _Different pain for different things, I guess_. He preferred the sharp, shooting pain to the dull, unending ache inside. _What is there to live for, really? Kurt hates me, my best friend would probably fucking __**lynch**__ me if I came out to him, my parents would disown me..._Thinking about it, he realised, with a sudden jolt, that he didn't have **anyone**. He knew Kurt's dad was supportive of him, and that was one of the things he envied Kurt for. Acceptance. And it was obvious that Kurt's dad loved him. Everyone loved Kurt. Even his bully loved him. _I'm sick._ The beading was now a light flow due to an increase in pressure. _...Don't wanna stain the carpet, right? _Dave grimaced and levered himself off the floor, the insanity temporarily at bay (or had it consumed him?), held back by the gleam of silver and rush of red. He walked over to his bathroom, secure in the knowledge that no one would be home for hours. He walked to the sink, leaning his forearms against it, holding the knife like a safety blanket. He stared at the red oozing from his skin, and looked at his face in the mirror. Normally ruddy cheeks had flushed from the crying in his closet, but he was white underneath. _Haha, in the closet. In more ways than one._ He held his wrist over the sink basin, watching solitary splashes of red stain the porcelain. _Porcelain. That's what Ms. Sylvester calls Kurt._ He blinked, thinking hard. _Shouldn't I write him a note? Tell him I'm sorry?_ He was pretty sure that's what people did before they killed themselves, told everyone that they'd ever hurt they were sorry. He quickly wrapped some tissue paper around the slit, still gripping his knife, and walked over to his desk, rummaging around for a piece of paper. His hunt rewarded by the spiral binding of a notebook, he took a pen and started writing.

**Kurt,**

**I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I don't know what was supposed to happen, but not this. Not like this. God, I never meant any of it.**

He paused, remembering that stupid collage Kurt had put on the side of his locker, beneath that fancy-boy's picture. 'Courage', it had said. He snorted, whether at the idea or at pretty-boy, he wasn't sure. _Courage isn't gonna get me out of this mess._ He was a mess. His life was a mess. He was all alone, surrounded by darkness. _Courage._ Courage for what? To tell his homophobic best friend that he was gay? To tell his straight-laced, Scripture-spouting parents that he liked other boys? No way. Courage wasn't going to set him free from a cage bound by rules and definitions of "normal" and "right".

Suddenly, hot tears started flowing again, staining the sheet he was writing on. He swore, collapsing on his desk chair and moving the paper. _Why did it have to be like this? Why can't I just be normal? I can't even like girls, and then I drive the guy I like away because I'm a fucking creep!_ He slammed his fist on the desk, causing pens to jump and start rolling with the sudden movement. Uncaring, he continued to sob, forehead against the wood grain, feeling the hot anguish burning through his chest again. _What good is courage if I screw everything up anyway?_ He flashed back to the day of the kiss, how that night, he'd laid in bed, torn between joy, hope, terror, anguish, hatred, revulsion, and pain. He'd kissed homo Hummel, the biggest fag in school. (He'd wanted to.) He'd been turned by Hummel's stupid tight clothes and in-your-face gayness. (He loved it, and he hated himself for loving it.) He'd _kissed_ Kurt. (Kurt was incredibly sexy when he was angry.) Kurt had pushed him away. (It had broken his heart.) Kurt's face was shocked and dismayed. (He'd felt the burn of tears.) He'd covered his lips with his hand. His expression screamed 'NO!' Kurt didn't want him. (Oh, but he wanted Kurt.) Kurt didn't like him. (He really liked Kurt.) Kurt didn't accept him. Kurt... didn't... accept him. The one person who might've... might've **understood** had pushed him away. (And if he didn't, who the hell would?) Because he was a monster, barely even human. Neanderthal, savage, ogre.

And then, that confrontation in the stairwell. He wouldn't have thought that Kurt would go around telling people, but then that preppy private school boy had shown up, with his white teeth and curly gelled hair. Kurt had thrown "not my type" at him like a javelin, the pointed words piercing a part of him he'd barely known existed. Was this his type, then, this pretty boy who always had the right thing to say, who was never lost for words or stunned into silence by the slightest motion made by Kurt? This self-possessed, charming, dashing boy who reeked of money and privilege and chose to confront Kurt's problems for him, who would take the fire that burned in the heart of Kurt Hummel and trap it, prevent anyone from seeing it, and smother it? "This your boyfriend, Kurt?" It had slipped out before he could stop it, could think, could feel anything beside the burning in his chest that had ignited when he saw how Kurt had oriented himself so naturally around whatever-his-name-was. The private school boy with the debonair attitude but the eyes of a snake had told him that he **knew**. "This is a very hard thing to come to terms with..." Dave had just wanted to get the hell out of there, but then pretty-boy had gone and told him that he **wasn't alone**. Like he knew his life, like he knew him. Dave had snapped at that, the privileged boy talking down to him in his worn-out sneakers and Target-brand clothes as though they were alike. Before Dave knew what was happening, he'd shoved the other boy against a fence, snarling, "Don't mess with me!" at him, stupid fancy jacket fisted in his hands, unknowing and uncaring if he was making a scene. Then Kurt had pushed him off. "You have to stop this!" _You have no idea what I'd give to stop,_ he'd thought. But history has a nasty habit of repeating itself... he'd run, then, as he'd run from the locker room, too unbalanced to think clearly, only knowing that he needed to escape, once again having been pushed away by Kurt Hummel. He had heard the prep school boy say, rather snidely, "Well, he's not coming out any time soon," as he fled to the refuge of the boys' bathroom. Nightmares had been given plenty of fuel by that encounter, not to mention the burning jealousy in his chest that spurred him to act even more like an idiot than he already did around Kurt...

Dave shook wretchedly, wracked with sobs, unconsciously gripping his wrist at a particularly fierce onslaught of tears. He hissed as the cut on his wrist throbbed, shooting pain through his arm. He opened his eyes, blinking through the haze of tears, to look at his wrist. _But... Jesus, is suicide really the way to fix this?_ He closed his eyes, thought about it, how easy it would be. Just to let everything slip away in a pool of red, streaming from his broken body. Maybe then, people would understand how they'd impacted him. Maybe Kurt would feel remorse. The idea of Kurt Hummel throwing himself across his casket sobbing was oddly appealing, but unrealistic. He doubted Kurt Hummel would come to his funeral in the first place, not when he had his dark-haired knight in rainbow armor to keep him busy. Another wave threatened to crash over his head at the image, and he shook it vigorously, trying to dispel that line of thought.

He... he wanted to be brave, like Kurt. At the root of it all, he wanted to be himself. He wanted to be able to walk down the halls without holding a dripping Slushie in his hand. He was sick of having to prove something. He was sick of the pain, he was sick of the pressure to conform, he was sick of being something he wasn't, he was sick of pushing people around, he was sick of not seeing the one ray of light that kept him going. _Fuck it, Kurt. Just come back._ Kurt had left because of him, Dave knew. Because he was genuinely afraid of him. Like any rational person would be.

Dave wished for Kurt's courage in the face of overwhelming adversity, courage to stand proudly and declare that being different was the best part of him. He remembered how, in spite of the tears running down Kurt's face, he'd still faced him and Azimio, unashamed and brave, willing to endure pain because he didn't conform. Kurt was valuable, more than he knew. He sparkled and shone with a light Dave couldn't resist, was drawn to like a moth to flame, but hated because it threw into relief all the darkest, ugliest parts of him that he could usually ignore. No, Dave wasn't brave like Kurt, or smart, or extremely talented. He was just a big, dumb (well, maybe not that dumb) jock who couldn't feel safe enough to tell anyone his secret, or to tell the boy he loved that he didn't actually hate him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He couldn't find the courage to be himself, even. _Why courage? Why does it come down to that?_

But maybe... maybe he could find courage to live. Courage to face the next day, to... to **change**. What was change, really? Just moving on. Moving from one person to the next. A reincarnation. He already had the sacrifice, the blood staining the tissue on his wrist a reminder. What if he could change? An ugly lump of rock could turn into a diamond. (Not coal: coal was sedimentary, and diamonds formed from igneous rocks. Idiots.) And what did a diamond do but reflect light? Facets refracted the path of rays and mirrored the brilliance of the light. Dave might not be brilliant, but he could show Lima, and Kurt, that there was more to him than just 'Karofsky'. No more hiding who he was. He could be free of that constant crushing weight in his chest, the contradictions and lies. No more of the constant refrain, "I like girls." No more playing dumb, and no more pushing people around because that's what he was supposed to do. Az wouldn't like it, he knew. But why should Azimio's good opinion be so important? He'd always cringed at how callous the other boy could be, but overlooked it because they'd been friends for so long, and that's how you were **supposed** to think in Lima. Az was, Dave realized, kind of a dick to everyone who wasn't a jock, and even then...

Dave sat up slowly, blinking until his eyes were clear. _Maybe they're not seeing a side of me they should. _He remembered how much had changed since 6th grade. He was bullied in 5th grade for developing way earlier than the other guys. They called him a freak, saying that he was an animal because of all the hair that was growing everywhere. In 6th grade, Azimio Adams, one of the football players, had taken up his cause, told him to try out for sports. He liked football okay, but hockey was where he found his niche. Sports weren't the only thing Azimio'd taught him. He told him that, once everybody saw how talented Dave was on the ice, he could take revenge on Hudson and the rest of the boys who'd bullied him so mercilessly. He just had to make his way up to the top. The idea had taken hold of Dave, and he'd gone out of his way to act like the other jocks, doing everything to fit in. He tossed nerds into dumpsters, ignoring the pang in his chest. Az wasn't the one to come up with Slushying, but he'd taken the idea up enthusiastically, with Dave right beside him. Shoving kids into lockers? Showed them who was who. Making fun of "Homo Explosion"? He'd ignored (shoved down) the voice inside that told him that he wasn't so different. His sexuality hadn't ever been questioned because he was so good at the façade. He'd made out with Cheerios (their lip gloss had almost made him gag), he'd made up a girlfriend in Chicago (they had family out there), and he'd been safe. _Safe but not happy._ His eyes brightened as he made his decision. _I'm not taking the easy way out._ He'd show his true nature, sexuality and all. He was big, he was strong, and he was ready to take on anyone who said a jock couldn't be gay. _Fuck that, I'm not a fairy. I like guys._ The others would just have to deal with it. He wasn't going to be pushed around any longer, suppressing everything until he felt like he was going to scream. He was going to work to become someone worthy of Kurt Hummel. With the threat of Karofsky gone, he was sure that Kurt wouldn't stay away. He knew how much Kurt loved New Directions, fancy private school or no. If Kurt had a boyfriend when he got back... well, Dave would just take it one step at a time. Plus, friendship can always grow into something else, right? He'd make it his goal to befriend Kurt, first and foremost.

He faltered a little at the idea of telling his parents. _Maybe I can ease them into it...?_ While he hadn't ever heard his father make any overtly homophobic remarks, he was pretty sure that he didn't approve. His mom might be more open-minded: she'd always told him to be himself, that she'd love him no matter what. _What if she doesn't, though?_ It was a real fear for him, being rejected by the people he loved most. No. He couldn't let himself think of that: he'd only know for sure once it happened.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, feeling a definite shift in everything now that he'd come to such an important decision. _The first hurdle of many._ He went back into the bathroom, wincing at the scarlet staining the sink, and turned the hot water on, washing the red down the drain. He pulled the paper off his wrist, flinching as the scabbing blood tore off partially. He washed the cut with soap, slapped a Band-Aid on it, and tore up the bloody tissue, flushing it in the toilet. He washed the knife off carefully, dried it, and walked over to his closet, throwing the blade in. He didn't want to find it for a long time, and was reasonably sure that, given the state of chaos his closet was constantly in, that wouldn't be a problem. Dave walked back over to the bathroom to turn off the light, and glanced at his own reflection again. He was no longer pale with fear and pain, but what surprised him was the unmistakable glimmer in his eyes. There was light in them again, hope, and maybe the promise of happiness. He breathed in shakily, feeling a corner of his mouth quirk as he exhaled. _Just you wait, Kurt Hummel. You won't recognize me when you get back._ With that thought in the forefront of his mind, he turned off the light and walked out of the room.

* * *

Thank you for reading!

As always, reading and reviewing is very much appreciated, and helps me to know what you like or dislike.


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